Love & Other Disasters(40)

London wanted desperately to be present. To be chatting with Dahlia about anything, enjoying the fact that they were on the fucking PCH and the sun was shining, the sky bright and clear.

Instead, they had spent most of the ride in total silence, other than the radio blaring. London leaned their head against the window, spacing out, the scenery rushing by them in a blur. They were aware of how mopey they appeared, but they were unable to stop it.

They felt strange. That was all. Strange. They hadn’t watched the episode themself, but couldn’t stop themself from looking at comments online. Social media was their life, more than they wanted to admit. Social media was what helped them figure out they were nonbinary in the first place. Social media gave them a community to be themself.

And they had received a lot of positive feedback from that community. Not just gifs on Twitter, but thoughtful DMs and texts.

OMG London! This is so amazing! Are you getting a lot of trolls? Take care of yourself, we’ll shut them down for you <3 <3 <3 also you look super hot, you know this right

Look at you, casually mentioning your pronouns on national TV like it ain’t no thing. You are a true American hero, London Parker

The thing about trolls was that London knew they were trolls. That you were supposed to be able to brush them off for what they were. Maybe London was softer than they should have been, but they’d never been able to make trolls’ words stop hurting anyway. Even if they knew that was what the trolls wanted, even if they knew they were letting the trolls win.

Julie, Jackie, and Sara had all sent encouraging texts. Jackie lived in Atlanta now, Sara in Pittsburgh, so obviously they hadn’t been at the viewing party in Nashville, but Julie said it had been a success. London had no idea what “a success” meant, but somehow they doubted it had been anything but awkward. Their mom had texted, too: Your lamb really did look like perfection. We are so proud of you, London. I love you.

There had been no texts from their dad. Obviously.

As the car wound through the hills, the ocean shining to their left, London felt their thoughts becoming not more present, exactly, but loosening, stretching as the miles passed. Why were they on this competition, really? Why was gender so easy for some people and not for others? Why did we care so much about other people’s opinions? Why was Dahlia nice to them?

London looked over at her then. And their heart stuttered.

She had one hand on the top of the wheel. She was wearing oversized sunglasses, a simple white V-neck T-shirt, short cutoff jean shorts. Her hair was down. And she was beaming. She was smiling through the windshield at nothing, while London curled against their seat belt in philosophical angst.

“You’re happy,” London said simply.

Dahlia’s smile faltered. Her eyes darted over to them.

“Oh. Hi. Sorry. I thought you were sleeping, maybe.”

“No. Just thinking.”

She nodded. “I’m not happy about . . . you know.” Another flap of her hand. “I’ve just discovered that I really like driving in LA.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

London grinned. “I’m glad.”

“There are so many people, and everyone goes so fast. It’s terrifying and thrilling,” Dahlia went on, her skin flushing. London wondered if Dahlia was even real. A woman who could fillet a swordfish like it was nothing, who carried a Swiss Army multitool in her bag at all times, who reveled in LA traffic. She made them sweat. “I mean, traffic in DC makes you want to stab something, but this is totally different. This car is so nice, too. You should see the clunker I drive around the ’burbs in Maryland.”

The rental was a Nissan. It was fine. London felt a little embarrassed about it, actually. It had been their mom’s idea; she was paying for it. But they hadn’t wanted to admit that to Dahlia for some reason.

They also didn’t tell Dahlia that at home, they drove a Tesla.

“And look at this road!” Dahlia gushed. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

The road really was something. City traffic had faded away now. The highway curved into the hills, smooth and lilting and poetic, like a symphony in asphalt.

London wanted Dahlia to keep talking about traffic, about the road, about her car back home, about anything, really. Dahlia could sing the ABCs and it would help. London wanted to tell her that she was helping. But words were still feeling hard.

So London didn’t say anything, and Dahlia stopped talking, and they drove for ten more minutes in silence. Until she pulled off the road randomly at an unmarked pull-off. She turned off the ignition and sat there for a second. Then she looked over at them.

“Hey, London?”

They unclicked their seat belt and met her gaze, raising an eyebrow.

“Fuck anyone who doesn’t see you.”

She got out of the car, slammed her door, and walked to the cliff’s edge.

London watched her for a minute, listening to their heart beat in their ears. They wanted to crystalize this moment, however bittersweet it felt: Dahlia Woodson at the ocean’s edge, wind blowing her hair, legs stretching for miles. Wanting to see them.

Feeling stranger than they had before, eventually London opened the car door and joined her.

They found a rickety set of stairs that led down to the beach. There was no one else there that they could see, which felt unbelievable after the chaotic mess of LA. Two majestic golden columns of rock jutted out of the waves.